Oh, I’m Going to Get Killed Any Minute Now (Part 7)

As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part six, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY TWENTY-NINE

Mondays. Seriously.

Had surprise, very brief, one-sidedly drunken performance review with Dark Lord Torkelheim today; he says that —since I’ve been here a full four days—I am now the longest-surviving goblin minion he has ever employed. Again, he does not appear to recall hiring me about a month ago, and has begun calling me “Stevens.”

Small, private hopes for large-scale, surprise one-month-anniversary party tomorrow—featuring cake and punch and very possibly a pinata —now dashed.

Tried (again) to discuss my retirement package, was told (once again) to “burn for all eternity in the fires of Goblin Hell” before my visibly inebriated boss vanished in a gout of shadow-flame and a slosh of whiskey.

This job sucks.

DAY THIRTY

Oh, yeah. So I ordered that one book on dwarven party humor, didn’t I?

In retrospect, that probably wasn’t a very good idea.

Was forced to explain at inordinate length to a very taciturn and seemingly only-barely convinced dwarven delivery person that I am actually a cursed dwarf adventurer, polymorphed into goblin-form by an evil sorcerer (possibly specifically a goblin sorcerer? Can’t remember. I lie very fast…) and now on secret assignment to King Dwarfo the Bearded, sent to infiltrate a warren of “filthy gobos” and learn more of their filthy gobo secrets.

Also, I didn’t have any gold to pay for the book; dwarves (and dwarven publishers in particular) observably very keen on contractual obligations inherent in putting check marks in the box marked “cash-on-delivery.” Informed the delivery-dwarf that in order to receive the payment he so ardently seeks, he must locate and beseech for recompense my noble grand-aunt, Lady Dwarfina the Less-Bearded, who dwells far to the south in the Dwarf-Filled Mountains of Most Exceptional Mysteriousness. Then slammed the door as hard as I could.

May have made an enemy for life.

Decided not to ask if the delivery dwarf happened to know any attractive dwarven women, recently single, from an open-minded yet freakishly wealthy family and looking to casually date a strategically important ex-dwarven, currently-goblin gentleman and to buy him nice things.

Pretty sure he spit on the door of the dungeon, too.

Regardless: am now the proud owner of one copy of “Humor of Age-Worn Stone, Hilarity of Forge-Worked Steel: the Glorious & Ever-Solid Tome of Dwarven party-humor, one-liners, speeches, comedic dances, charming anecdotes, and amusing quotes suitable for all ages and gatherings, Volume the First” which has not technically been paid for.

So far, I have found it pretty good, although some parts are a little over-done. The sections on knock-knock jokes in particular are lengthy, full of ponderously ostentatious names and quite unnecessarily heavy on puns. Also: just, really terribly racist against goblins.

Chapter for dwarven rogues—featuring knee-slappers about the use of sledgehammers, heavy iron-shod boots, and occasional elf heads as lockpicking devices—actually very funny. Took me a little bit to get some of the more obscure jokes about blowing open doors with heavy explosives and siege weaponry and then “picking the lock…up off the ground!” but I suppose that it could be quite hilarious in the right circumstances.

Must remember some of these if I ever join an adventuring party with both an elf and a human, especially if one of them is female.

Book also came with some free stuff, including a pamphlet advertising the new book “Better Adventuring…To a Better YOU!” by a Lord Marcus Arvidson and a catalog of other texts and tomes available from the same publisher. Have been feeling semiguilty about constantly reneging on my previous plan to stop eating rats; now considering sending away for a book on dwarven cooking.

Apparently, the new big thing in dwarven cuisine is “boiling stuff.”

Also: considering sending away for the book of “dirty” dwarven jokes. Am slightly (and, I think, justifiably) worried that they might just be jokes about dirt.

DAY THIRTY-ONE

Oh, for the love of…and now that stupid racist ghost is back.

Are you freaking kidding me?

Jimbo will not stop screaming about him; have had to cancel another strategically important poker night.

DAY THIRTY-TWO

Adventurers last night.

Or, perhaps more accurately, one singular, very angry and possibly inebriated adventurer exceptionally intent on acquiring access to Sigvald’s room.

Note to Shaendralya is now missing. Everything in his room was set on fire. Magical bedspread again badly damaged.

Am now vaguely regretting my fit of pique.

Racist ghost unharmed. Very angry.

DAY THIRTY-THREE

Another night of my stupid dungeon being ransacked. Man, what is it with this place?

New note from Shaendralya, found in Sigvald’s room pinned to the now miraculously unharmed magical bedspread with a set of possibly poisoned crossbow bolts:

Not entirely certain if I should expect another note. Currently drafting my response.

I think I will include the words “honey-muffin.” Perhaps several times.

Have taken the precaution of drawing a large X on Sigvald’s door (and my own) with the words “cleared” with a made-up date beneath it. This, according to Lord Marcus Arvidson, will deter gullible adventurers from entering the place—thus keeping my stuff safe.